


Withdraw

by Checkerbox



Series: heartfelt [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Last Resort of Good Men, just an alternate take on the conversation, wherein it doesn't wait until they get back to skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 20:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Checkerbox/pseuds/Checkerbox
Summary: Trevelyan is startled by how emotionally affected Dorian is by the meeting with his father at Redcliffe, and struggles to comfort him when he has had no practice in that sort of thing whatsoever.





	Withdraw

Trevelyan had taken some degree of amusement in watching Dorian rant about his family, when he first offered him the letter.

Not visibly, of course. It would be too difficult to explain, should Dorian notice and take offense to what would probably look like glee at his emotional distress. And he didn’t care much for the notion of having that anger directed his way. It was much easier to appreciate the glorious, crackling destruction of a fire if it wasn’t in the process of burning your flesh off.

“This is so _typical!”_

Dorian was like some beautiful, angry god, teeth gritted and pacing as he went on. “You seem to have some bad blood with your family,” he’d ventured to stoke the fires as they died down a little, cautious not to grin as he said it.

And Dorian had laughed, this mean and sharp chuckle, and his heart melted further. “_Interesting turn of phrase._”

Of course Dorian would see his family. Of course Trevelyan would accompany him, prepared to slaughter anyone who might take his favorite mage away. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of use of “Inquisition time” that he could easily justify to his advisers, but he would never deny Dorian nor himself the chance for a dramatic family confrontation. It just wasn’t in his nature.

Dorian’s father being there instead of the retainer was entirely expected.

The lack of surprise in Dorian’s voice told him he was not the only one who thought so.

Trevelyan had hung back by the doorway, feeling the energy from Dorian’s anger keep him aloft, keep his toes tapping away in his boots and his fingers fidgeting. Learning that Dorian was interested in men had not caused him any great surprise, but the fact that it was this that served as the lynchpin for his falling out with his family had struck him funny. His father—Halward, Dorian had called him—looked between them with the kind of righteous indignation only possible for someone whose moral standards were completely arbitrary and practically worthless.

Trevelyan knew what fathers were like.

He’d assumed that Dorian knew too, right up until his voice had cracked and his face had twisted. “You tried to—to _change me_.”

\--And oh, Dorian was hurt.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Then everything clicked into terrible place, the edgings of guilt and shame in how Halward looked at Dorian then, the way Dorian’s shoulders trembled when he’d paced. This was not a family that served as nothing more than a leash to be shucked off. This was not something to reminisce on at taverns, drinking and sneering.

Dorian had loved his father. And what was more, he had been loved.

Fury, a small candle light suddenly flickering into a bonfire engulfed him. Trevelyan felt dizzy. Halward had no right to do anything to try and assuage his guilt. This was the path he had knowingly chosen; how **galling **to admit weakness now, to bid for forgiveness to soothe the part of himself he’d disregarded when he wounded his son.

Even worse, to ask forgiveness when he _put **that **expression on Dorian’s face._

All it took was the slightest push and Dorian was storming out with him. Whether this was the right thing to do or not didn’t matter to him. He just needed to leave. Needed to go before he did something he regretted.

The rage died soon after they were out of that stinking tavern. After they were bordering on the edge of town, Trevelyan was simply embarrassed at getting so worked up over something so personally trivial, and uncomfortably unsure of what to do about Dorian’s prolonged, glowering silence.

He was not going off about the flaws in Solas’ wardrobe, or picking at Iron Bull’s lack of shirt, or grumbling about Sera’s views on magic. Any one of those would have been easy to handle, fun to witness. He was bleeding and raw, and the buzz of energy that surrounded him felt like an impregnable barrier.

When they were on that hill that overlooked the whole of the town, next to the crumbling and long-destroyed windmill, Dorian’s feet came to an abrupt halt. A quiver ran through his shoulders before they drooped, and then he glanced over his shoulder over the sprawling village they were about to leave.

Trevelyan knew with awful certainty that he had deprived him of something. But lacking further context it was hard to know what.

They stood there on that precipice for what felt like ages before he heard, quiet and weak and entirely unlike the man that he had found himself growing fond of, “…Do you think he’s still back there?”

His stomach felt cold, and his tongue clumsy. “Do you want to go back?”

“No.” Spoken too hastily to sound genuine. “No, I just…_Kaffas._” Then he was storming again as though the moment of indecision had never occurred. “Never mind.”

That was the last word they exchanged. After that, they regrouped with the rest of the party who had been doing scouting and various missions in the area, and then it was hard to give Dorian his sole attention for a while.

Or perhaps he used them an as an excuse to leave him alone while his own thoughts settled.

They set up camp together when the sun went down, Trevelyan opting to go hunting for their dinner to clear his head. He almost invited Dorian along, but. Well. Thought better of it. He caught a fine ram, skinned it, fileted it, and then had to watch as Blackwall took his work and turned it into a stew.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Dorian sat away from the camp fire. This, despite his common complaints of being cold.

That was wrong.

A helping of the stew in hand Trevelyan walked to the smooth, large tree stump that Dorian had settled upon, and debated with himself over how to approach this. He was never good at inserting himself into another person’s brooding. At least, not without pissing them off further.

It was a little difficult to see under the robes, but Dorian was indeed shivering. His shoulders were tightly drawn in, body closed off in a way that was foreign and wrong. The thought of seeing his face then, of whatever vulnerability had resulted in him hiding himself, was a prospect that both fascinated and horrified him.

Trevelyan sat behind him so that they were back to back. He gently pushed the bowl of “stew” Dorian’s way, and after a good minute of tense waiting it was picked up.

There were no sounds of eating, though. It was possible Dorian was just holding it in his lap to warm up.

The sounds of conversation drifted their way, far enough that the individual words blurred together into a fuzzy, white noise of comradery and bickering. Trevelyan leaned back just slightly, just enough to feel warmth solidly at his back, and let the noise wash over him. Being the Inquisitor had led to far more attention than he was used to, in personal situations like these. Having eyes on him felt unnatural, made his nerves jump and his heart thrash. It felt calming, being on the darkened edge looking in. He wondered if Dorian ever felt the same way, or if he thrived more under a spotlight.

“He’s a good man, my father,” he suddenly heard behind him, unprompted. “Deep down.”

Trevelyan’s insides twinged uncomfortably. He said nothing, even as he wrestled with whether or not to argue with that statement.

“I have this…image in my head of him from when I was younger. Stalwart and strong, and…principled.” Dorian’s voice continued, mournful and quiet. “I used to never doubt that he cared for me. …I’m sure in his own way he still does. Just…not enough.”

When nothing followed, Trevelyan figured it was his turn to speak. He struggled, briefly, before finally deciding on questions he knew the answer to. “…He tried to use blood magic? To change you?”

“To alter my mind. Make me an acceptable son.”

Properly thinking about it made him somewhat queasy, and he asked, “Can blood magic…do that? Change someone that way?”

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t the most reassuring answer. “Maybe. Maybe it would have destroyed my mind instead. I always wondered how he could think…” Abruptly, Dorian straightened, sniffing. “—I do apologize, Inquisitor. I won’t let this…episode interfere with my duties to our cause, if that’s an issue.”

Trevelyan’s brow furrowed. “Of course you won’t. I’m not concerned about that.”

“No? You’ve been awfully reticent with your opinions. …You must…have some thoughts about that whole debacle.”

His hearing was quite sensitive, and he caught the slight tremor in Dorian’s voice.

Perhaps it was a test.

No one should ever ask what he thought. His first impulse was to take Dorian by his metaphorical exposed throat and tear him apart. It would certainly teach him, to talk to Trevelyan like he was there instead of just some prop in the background to be ignored until it came to life and stabbed you.

But he also liked Dorian a lot.

No, that wasn’t sufficient. Words did not express how bizarrely joyous he was just by being in the company of this man, despite how short a time it had been since their introduction. Late addition to the party though he might be, they had clicked on a level that Trevelyan hadn’t felt in years, unable to suppress his eagerness to talk to him, to hear his voice and everything he had to say.

At least, he thought they had. It was…uniquely distressing to hear Dorian speak to him with any kind of trepidation, and filled him with an unfamiliar desire to put him at ease.

But to comfort him? On a matter this foreign? That was beyond his abilities.

Trevelyan wiped his face with his hand and fought off a wave of sudden sickness for home, where everything was wrong but at least he knew how it worked.

“…Well, it was quite the show, at least.” Silence, at least for a moment. He felt Dorian shift against his back, turn slightly. “Superior to all the dramas I’ve seen back in Ostwick. …Farcical, almost. ‘The father who ruined his relationship with his son because he wanted grandkids’.” He didn’t know if the sentiment was too flippant. He had never experienced anything remotely like this before. “--I suppose we’d have to rework the title a little. ‘The Fool Magister’, maybe.”

“Ha.” It wasn’t a victory because that wasn’t an actual laugh, rather more like saying “ha” out loud. “The father’s the farce, is he? Not the degenerate son?”

A bloom of sour indignance at the use of the word ‘degenerate’ pushed him to speak next, without thinking, “Don’t be ridiculous. _Why_ would the son be the farce? The son is always the protagonist. Especially when he’s a man like you.”

There was no reply then. He wondered if perhaps he had said the wrong thing, or else used the wrong tone of voice.

Cautiously, lightly, he moved to place his hand over Dorian’s. The gesture was not rebuffed. “…You were magnificent. –If you were on a stage, I would have given you a standing ovation.”

Finally, he heard a watery, “As well you should.” Some of Trevelyan’s own nerves abated. “Well. I’m glad you got some amusement out of it, at least.”

“That’s why you joined the Inquisition, isn’t it? To amuse me?”

He heard a grim chuckle. “…Something like that.”

They lapsed back into a short silence, Trevelyan contemplating Dorian’s hand. He could feel a little bit of heat. Could feel the shape of his fingers, the curve of his knuckles. Most of Dorian was exquisite, and this was no different. Briefly, he wished to take off his glove and feel the texture of his skin. But that would be too much.

“My father…” Dorian began again, suddenly, like before. “He lives in this world where nothing matters except the way others look at him. He never got it…Living a lie, it…festers inside you like poison. Do you understand?”

He didn’t have to think about it. “Yes. My family--" Trevelyan paused, swallowing. "--Parents either love you or they don't. They either understand, or they don't. Belaboring the point only...only causes more pain."

That received no response.

Suddenly feeling chilled and uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and moved to stand. But came to a stop when he felt Dorian reach for his hand and squeeze through the glove.

“Inquisitor…” When he looked back, he saw that Dorian had turned fully to face him. There was less overt misery than Trevelyan had feared, though that didn’t say much. His kohl was smeared just enough to show he’d been wiping at his reddened, bright eyes. His mustache was in disarray, the product of perhaps sobbing into his hand and then feebly attempting to straighten it out again without comb, mirror, and wax. The shadows played on his features, making them appear a little more gaunt and tired.

Maker, Dorian was so beautiful.

He was talking. Trevelyan shook his head slightly, trying to catch up with the words. “…ank you for bringing me out there. Even if…” And for just a moment, he was struck with the sudden terror of Dorian looking right through him, lips pursed. But then the hard gaze dropped to their hands, and the moment passed. “Well, I just appreciate your honesty. It gave me some time to prepare, at least.”

“Oh!” The idea of going ahead with the lie hadn’t even occurred to him. “Do you think it would have been more dramatic if I hadn’t told you ahead of time?”

Dorian gave him a little scowl as he stood, though there was just the hint of a smile in it. “Most definitely. Poor you, missing out on such an opportunity to see me in further distress.” 

“That’s alright. I’ll just wait until next time you stand downwind of the Iron Bull.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I’ve been praising the Maker that you didn’t bring him along.” He glanced down at the stump, seeing the bowl of stew still there. Dorian sighed and picked it up, giving it a small, disdainful sniff. He tasted of it, finally, and then casually upended the entire thing into the grass. “…I think perhaps it’s time I turned in for the night. The sooner we get up, the sooner we get to Skyhold, the sooner I can drink this whole awful experience out of my head. You’re…welcome to join me, if you’ve a mind.”

Trevelyan shrugged, shrinking at the idea of being around even more emotional vulnerability to clumsily bat at. “I wouldn’t mind offering you the company. But I don’t drink. At least, not enough to get drunk; I’ve been told I become…disturbing when my inhibitions are lowered.”

“Disturbing?” Dorian lifted a brow, head tilting slightly to the side. “An angry drunk, then?”

“Not…” Trevelyan paused on the words, fiddling slightly with his gloves. “…Angry, no.”

“I see.” Those lovely grey eyed narrowed consideringly, an inscrutable expression passing over his face. Then it relaxed. “And just how do you cope then, with your myriad traumatic experiences? You must have _something_. You’re far too chipper otherwise.”

“I don’t experience _feelings_, Dorian.” It probably wasn’t healthy to think of conversation as being comprised of point scoring, but the skeptical chuckle felt like another win. Pleased, he relented. “Alright, well, maybe I put them aside for later. Then when later comes I brood on them intensely for a few days until I’m numb to them.”

Dorian laughed, finally sounding like himself again. “Interesting strategy, but I think I’ll stick to the alcohol.”

“Killing is also quite soothing.” He’d grown a bit too comfortable, perhaps—a split second later he heard it himself, and then added, hastily, “—Animals, I mean. --Hunting. That is what I meant.”

Well. Animals and people who needed to die.

Same difference, really.

"Perhaps best you don’t accompany me in the tavern, then.” Dorian glanced back at the fire, idly attempting to correct the curl in his mustache again. “If you joined me there, I would be honor bound to follow along the next time you went hunting, and all the animals would see us coming. I’m not designed for stealth, after all.”

Hm.

“—Actually, I could find a use for you even in that capacity. It would depend on where we went hunting, I suppose, but if they put all their focus on you it would make them less likely to notice me; I could have you walk through and—perhaps using fire—frighten them into running towards a choke point, which would make it easier for me to—” Trevelyan coughed into his fist. “—I’ll let you go to sleep now.”

Dorian gave a bow with a mildly amused flourish, crossing in the direction of his tent. “You are most gracious, Inquisitor. …When next you see me, I will be more put together, I assure you.”

Insides prickling just a little, Trevelyan nodded and watched him leave, eyes becoming lost in every graceful step half-lit by the fire. Eventually he was forced to stop when Dorian’s form became obscured by his tent flap, and even then his eyes remained rooted in place long enough that some of his crew by the fire noticed.

He did not tell Dorian that he had liked seeing him in pieces.

It would be too difficult to explain.

**Author's Note:**

> note: I have probably 20 different fics started for Dragon Age that are either one fourth or halfway written. When I’m finally finished with my main fic (I’m getting there, I swear) I may try to chisel some of these out.
> 
> One such idea string I had was doing “rewrites” of the major scenes in Dorian’s romance line. Experiment with how my Inquisitor functions with Dorian when it’s not an AU.


End file.
